Page 49 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

“No,” I pouted. My legs twitched restlessly, searching for friction. “It’s not what I want. But I need—”

“I’ve got you. Trust me.”

One hand splayed across my hip, pushing me back to the mattress. His other hand went between my legs, right where I was wet and desperate for him, the place where only one other man had ever touched me. He stroked one finger down the seam of my slick folds, then nestled in deeper, finding the sensitized bundle of nerves and rubbing it. Gently at first and then more firmly as my hips bucked involuntarily.

I moaned, moving against his hand, making sounds that were desperate pleas for more, more, more. And he gave it to me, gave me more, pressing his palm against my clit to hold the pressure I craved while his middle finger entered me. I clung to him, panting, my whole body strung tight as a bowstring.

God, it felt so damn good. I couldn’t even be upset that he had refused to use his dick—yet—not when he was so freaking good with his hands. The way he touched me was an epiphany. I hadn’t shut down this part of myself after George, not completely. I knew how to touch myself to orgasm. I was quite efficient at it, in fact. My record was ninety seconds.

But this. There was nothing efficient about it. He took his time, drawing out the pleasure until I was completely at his mercy. It was agony and ecstasy all rolled into one.

“You’re so wet.” His words were slurred as though he were a drink past tipsy, and I heard the awe in his voice, the raw need. The hunger…for me. Just for me.

He kissed me, deep and luscious, sucking my tongue into his mouth. Then falling into a steady rhythm, the stroke of his tongue against mine matching the stroke of his finger deep inside me. Driving me ever upward toward the height of pleasure and keeping me there, balanced on the precipice. I sobbed into his mouth, desperate and aching for release.

Until he lowered his head, caught a peaked nipple between his teeth, and bit gently. The pleasure was unbearable. My head tipped back on a cry. His clever fingers went faster, harder, and I began to shake, my internal muscles pulsing around his fingers, as my orgasm broke in wave after wave.

My body went limp. I was dimly aware of his hand cupping the back of my head, supporting my weight until he could maneuver a pillow beneath me. Only then did he lay me down. I sank against the pillow, watching him with half-lidded eyes as he stood and shucked his pajamas. He grabbed a condom from the nightstand and rolled it over his length. I only had a moment to admire him, sleekly muscled and his cock standing at attention, before he prowled across the bed and pulled me underneath him.

His meadow-green eyes gazed down at me with such fierce longing that it stole my breath. A month ago, we had been just like this, and those eyes had been a stranger’s eyes. Not anymore.

We’d had ghosts between us then. Memories and fears and doubts. I’d had something to prove—to myself, if to no one else.

But this time, there was no room for ghosts. No room for fears. No room for doubt. I had nothing to prove, not to Max. There was only this. Only him. Only me. I placed my hand against his chest, felt the rapid beat of his heart, then slid it upward to cup his face. The stubble along his jaw and cheek scraped at my fingertips. Our eyes stayed locked on each other, the intimacy of the moment enveloping us like a cashmere cloak.

“Max,” I whispered.

He flexed his hips, sliding the hard ridge of his arousal against my slick, swollen flesh, his gaze never leaving mine. My arousal increased inexorably, as though I had not been fully sated only a moment ago. I canted my hips, whimpering, until I was pushing back against him, meeting his rhythm glide for glide.

“Max, please.” The words were half plea, half command.

He shifted slightly, just enough that this time, his thrust sent him deep inside me.

Finally.

“God. Kate.”

I wrapped my legs around his waist, arching against him, meeting his thrusts with demands of my own. Pleasure built inside me, slower this time. Deeper.

“Kate,” he said again, and there was an urgency in his tone. He braced himself above me, shuddering as he fought for control. “I can’t—”

I raised my hips, pulling him deeper inside me, grinding my body against his, sending us both into climax. His body shook as his arousal pulsed inside me. He buried his face against my neck as we gripped each other close, panting.

I traced the muscled contours of his back, unable to check a small hum of satisfaction at having this gorgeous, sated man lie boneless on top of me. I had done that to him. I was more than a little pleased by that.

I allowed myself to sink into the moment. This was what I had been missing. I had been so scared that it would never happen for me again, both the physical pleasure of sex and the emotional intimacy it could create, if it happened with the right person. That my tears the first time with Max had meant I was broken.

But I wasn’t broken. I just needed time. Practice.

Because now I didn’t feel like crying at all.

Chapter 16

Kate

The problem with small towns was that there really wasn’t much to do except get all up in one another’s business. It had been a long time since I had any business worth getting up in, but thanks to Max, that had changed.

A fact I was made aware of as I looked up from the glass jars I was filling with jewel-toned gummi candies and found myself faced with three of the most feared busybodies in all of Hart’s Ridge: Estelle Gaither, Maud Spencer, and Lillian Valdez. A septuagenarian mafia who never left home unless armed with their knitting needles.

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